


Icarus

by cecilantro



Series: 100 Days Of Ficlets [27]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 21:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14090112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecilantro/pseuds/cecilantro
Summary: Mollymauk’s wings are made of string, feathers, and wax, and when he flies too close to the flames, as in Alfield, they burn away.





	Icarus

Two weeks. Not a good length of time to get a good beat on someone’s life story, but, apparently, a good length of time to fall in love with everything they do.   
Molly watches Caleb.   
Each careful stroke of his pen, perfect, he even has a smaller quill to fill in the tinier details of the spell glyphs, he cracks it out in front of Molly’s eyes, and nobody seems to notice how silent and still Molly goes, until Frumpkin winds, carefully, around his ankles and he suppresses a reflexive jump. Frumpkin does not relent, he comes around to Molly’s side and crouches, wiggles, Molly knows by now and shifts an arm. Frumpkin jumps onto his lap and settles himself down to nap.   
Caleb sees him move and doesn’t look up from his book, but blinks, Molly sees his eyes cloud over and he blinks again, back to normal. He smiles.   
Everything he does. Every smile, every stroke of ink, every turn of the page. Spells, speech, movement, and Molly drinks it in like Caleb is water in a drought.   
He takes, carefully, a long gulp of his drink and settles his spirits both mentally and physically, the brandy burns a trail down his throat.   
Frumpkin’s head lifts in his lap, and with it, Molly’s eyes move to Caleb. His eyes are misty, paled, literally cloudy and Molly looks back to Frumpkin, turned to rub his head affectionately against Molly’s chest. Molly scratches gently behind his ear and watches Caleb’s body deliberately, a shiver goes through him and he blinks out of Frumpkin’s eyes again, the cat shivers a little and slips down from Molly’s lap with a final bump to his shin.   
  
Molly has noted some things about Caleb in the short time that he’s been studying him. First, easiest, he’s not a fan of eye contact. When it seems socially necessary, He’ll look at Molly’s horns instead, the lapels of his jacket in less serious situations, his hands when he’s sad or guilty or hurting, Molly knows that Caleb has seen the way Molly’s fingers twitch, sometimes, the desire to draw cards overwhelming.    
Psychic stuff is bullshit, fate is fake, nothing is predestined, is what Molly tells them.   
Caleb knows him better.   
Molly’s seen the way Caleb shrinks, curls back like burnt webbing when someone touches him without warning. Wessik, Jester, even Molly, once.    
And yet there have been a few times that Molly has seen his eyes cloud over, when Fjord, or Beau, or Jester seemed sad, and Frumpkin padded or fluttered to their side to provide a little comfort to them, rubbing his head against their hand or leg or chest, jumping to their shoulders. Molly has had it more than once, though he thinks he does a decent job of keeping his emotions hidden under a thick layer of carnival personality, overconfidence perhaps.   
He speculates, sometimes, that Caleb can see straight through that, truesight through illusions. Frumpkin always seems to bump up to him when he’s feeling particularly low, when his eyes strain particularly hard looking for a glimmer of Yasha in the crowd.   
When he’s caught sobbing, a hand clapped over his mouth to muffle the noise, in the middle of the night. Frumpkin had slid his way, fluid, around Molly, climbed up to butt against his face, gentle. It could have just been the cat.   
He doesn’t think so.   
He’d seen Caleb’s shoulders tighten at the back when Frumpkin saw him cast his gaze over, he’d heard the change in Caleb’s pattern of breath, he knows. He says nothing, and neither does Caleb.

Unbeknownst to Mollymauk, Caleb has been watching him, too.   
He makes mental notes for everything, from Molly’s preferred drink- gin, in basic spirits- to the things that comfort him. He’s noted the way that Molly laces and un-laces his fingers, when his eyes are lost to the scenery, he searches and scours for something. Caleb assumes it’s Yasha, there’s such a change when she’s present, he’s noted that, too.   
Walls come down around her, walls that Caleb doesn’t think that Molly knows he has, unrestrained, and it’s hard to get a peg on restraints for someone who acts as though the sky is the limit for the wings they’ve given themself.   
Mollymauk’s wings are made of string, feathers, and wax, and when he flies too close to the flames, as in Alfield, they burn away.   
Yasha comes, and it seems as through her touch to his shoulder turns wax to blood, string to skin and sinew, poorly formed wings to the strength of bone, birdlike. Molly  _ soars _ , his vision to her, Caleb has a vivid mental image of the burst of blood from Molly’s neck in the sewers,  _ nobody _ would harm Yasha.    
Caleb notes, also- Molly’s comfort falls to crowds, when he is around those he can trust, even just a little bit, as he can with the Nein. They have saved his life, and he repays them in kind, no unbridled and unconditional trust- two weeks is not a good length of time to get a beat on someone’s ability to be trusted- but something, just a little bit. Caleb holds it to his chest, it’s been far too long since he could trust anyone, and he wants, so badly, to be able to trust again.   
And yet Molly, when his stresses and hurts get too much, he disappears to be alone.   
Speaking of, Molly stands from the table quietly, he slips under the radar surprisingly well when he wants to. If it wasn’t for Caleb watching him out of the corner of his eye, he would have gone completely unnoticed as he slips away and out of the tavern. Caleb flicks his fingers, Frumpkin follows, squeezing through the door just before it closes.   
Caleb leans over to mumble to Nott, and then he clouds his eyes and shifts to Frumpkin.   
Molly falls out of range of Caleb’s control quickly, but he emphasises the need to care for Mollymauk, and Frumpkin obeys diligently. It takes three streets for Molly to notice the cat dogging his heels, and he sighs when he does, stops, and kneels.   
“Caleb, I’m fine.” he tells Frumpkin, deliberate, and Frumpkin mewls back at him. Molly curses,   
“Of course, too far. Well, shit. I guess you’re watching me tonight.” he tilts his head, an invite, and Frumpkin jumps neatly up to sit on his shoulder. Molly stands, begins walking once again, takes care as he reaches up to scratch Frumpkin’s head,   
“Better not let you die, eh? Caleb would never forgive me.”   
Frumpkin presses his head into Molly’s hand.

 

Molly ends up at a dive that is  _ far _ rowdier and less deadly than The Evening Nip, he enjoys, for once, being able to blend into the background of the crowd and sip something acid green and so strong in scent that Frumpkin’s head turns to Molly’s hair instead, the smell of lavender serving only to soften the disgust. Caleb bites his tongue back at the bar.   
He feels, through Frumpkin, the beginnings of a shake, and knows instinctively. He blinks back to The Leaky Tap, and finds Fjord watching him intently.   
It seems everyone else has gone to bed, beside him, Nott is asleep on the table.   
“Molly?” Fjord asks, nailing the issue before Caleb’s expression of worry and panic can show clearly on his face, and Caleb nods. He looks between Nott and Fjord, and the half-orc nods at him,   
“I’ll take her. Bring him home safe, Caleb.”   
Caleb hands him the key to his room.   
“I will try my best.”   
Caleb pats Fjord’s shoulder as he passes, and moves like shadow out of the bar and into the street.

He remembers exactly the path Molly chose to get to the particular bar he entered, and he stops around a corner to flicker back to Frumpkin. Molly, now, has three small glasses, empty, in front of him. As far as Caleb can gather, from Frumpkin’s eyes, he’s in a corner, out of sight, a hand to his mouth. It’s something Caleb has seen before.   
He comes back to himself and rounds the corner, slips into the bar.   
It takes a few flickers between himself and Frumpkin to find Mollymauk, he’s throwing back another tiny glass of the acid green drink when Caleb first catches sight of him, and there’s still the clear streaks of tears on his face.   
Caleb throws a gold to the table as he reaches Molly, the server takes it gladly, and then Caleb is pulling Molly by the wrist up, up, out of the bar, his wax wings lay in tatters behind them.   
He pulls Molly into the alleyway, Frumpkin winds around their ankles when they stop, Caleb pats Molly’s shoulder before he kneels,   
“Go back, watch over Nott.” He tells him, he doesn’t need to say the words out loud but he does, because his mind is full of a static-like panic and worry for Molly that blocks most coherent thought. Frumpkin butts his hand and turns, slinks away, Caleb turns all of his attention to Molly.   
Molly still has a hand over his mouth, muffling, and by now he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t really remember why he’s crying. He misses Yasha. He misses the carnival. He misses not fearing for his life every time he stepped away or into his bed.   
He misses the simplicity of life, not having to watch people he cares about get beaten and stabbed and shot, bitten burned hurt  _ killed _ .    
Caleb, very gently, pries his hand from his mouth and holds it. It’s so gentle, barely a touch at all, light as wind and mist. Molly doesn’t remember when Caleb took his other hand, either, but he knows that right now, Caleb is looking at him with such ingrained sorrow that he knows the ache of his pain is being shared.    
He takes a shuddering breath, Caleb squeezes his fingers, very gently.   
“I don’t want to talk.” Molly finds himself saying, and Caleb smiles, it’s shocking,   
“I know.” He tells him, gentle, “I want you to come back, safe.”   
Molly gulps back tears.   
“I miss Yasha, Caleb.” he says, and he can’t stop the new, fresh burn as a few tears seep through his defence.   
Caleb lets go of one of his hands to reach up and brush them away with the pad of his thumb, so soft.   
“It’s okay, Mollymauk.” He replies, and his voice is as soft as his touch.   
“Don’t let me go.” Molly’s a rasp, a husk, he is only pain. He wants his wings back.   
Caleb slips his fingers between Molly’s.   
“I won’t.” he replies, and presses up onto his toes to kiss Molly’s cheek, gentle, he can’t reach his forehead. Like a cat, Molly leans into the touch, Caleb trembles with his own weight but allows Molly to press his forehead to Caleb’s, a moment of intimacy in the dark of the alleyway.   
When he collapses back down, Molly follows, drawn, and Caleb smiles and rests his head to Molly’s shoulder instead.    
It occurs to Molly.   
“You don’t like it when people touch you.” He tells Caleb, a little incredulous, and Caleb smiles at him, strangely.   
“I don’t mind it so much when it’s for you.” He admits to him, settles his free hand at Molly’s waist, Molly’s breath comes out shakily.   
“Going back?” Molly asks, and he feels Caleb’s hand on his waist squish a little in answer, they recollect themselves.   
Caleb leads Molly home by the hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Luke's fucking gay
> 
> If you like my work and wanna support me, you could always [Buy me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/cecilantro)!


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